


Numb

by misanthropiclycanthrope



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: A Smidgen of Fluff, Angst, Dom/sub, Elements of dubcon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Sub!Athos, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1386541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropiclycanthrope/pseuds/misanthropiclycanthrope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“You know I’m willin’ to give you whatever you need, but not like this.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> A fill for this [Kinkmeme](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org) prompt:
> 
> "I see a lot of prompts here that involve Athos as a submissive/feeling like he needs to be hurt and punished during sex. I'd just like to see that sort of scenario except that they take things too far. Not out of pain I suppose, given that Athos doesn't seem like he would break from that sort of thing. More feeling overwhelmed, out of control, or perhaps from an accidental trigger?
> 
> Either way my main point here is that I would like to see Athos pushed to the point where he breaks and needs to stop, and then the other person having to deal with the fallout from that. I'm happy for it to be any pairing though!"
> 
>  **Warning:** I haven't flagged this as Dubcon because, technically, it isn't. It does, however, come a little close.

It always began the same way: a look from Athos that, to anybody else, would appear to be nothing more than a drunk man’s attempt to focus bleary eyes, but that held a meaning Porthos instantly recognised and acknowledged with a small nod.

A few minutes later, Porthos would announce his intention to escort Athos home and haul the man up from his seat, encountering only a token grumble of protest before steering him out of the tavern.

This night is no different, and as the two men step out onto the misty street, Porthos loops an arm around Athos’s waist for support, although he is far steadier on his feet than a man has any right to be after consuming such a vast amount of alcohol over the course of the evening. It is the only show of comfort Athos will allow and Porthos uses it more a silent expression of his affection for his friend than a means of assistance. He only wishes Athos would accept it for what it is.

Immediately they enter Athos’s rooms, Porthos has him pinned against the door, trapped between Porthos’s body at his back and the rough wood of the door before him. Athos gives a soft grunt and turns his head to the side, pressing his cheek to the unyielding wood, but makes no move to escape, relinquishing all control to Porthos with absolute trust.

With his teeth, Porthos tugs off a gauntlet and presses two fingers to Athos’s lips. Athos obediently opens his mouth, accepting the intrusion as Porthos pushes his fingers inside, sucking even as they graze the back of his throat.

Porthos moves back a little, drawing Athos with him, just enough that he can fit his other hand between the door and Athos’s chest to unfasten his doublet. He yanks the loose garment away from Athos’s shoulder, the shirt beneath drawn with it, exposing bare skin that is instantly assailed by teeth and tongue as he works a mark into the flesh and feels the resultant shudder run through Athos’s body.

His free hand unfastens Athos’s belt, the sword clattering unheeded to the floor, then begins work on the buttons of his breeches and, purposefully avoiding any contact with Athos’s cock, he pushes them down, out of the way. Pulling his fingers from Athos’s mouth, Porthos allows him just enough time to draw a breath before pushing the first slick digit deep into his body in one smooth movement. The air catches in Athos’s lungs and his forehead thumps against the door at the sudden invasion. Porthos stills, holding Athos steady as he waits for his breathing to grow even and his muscles to relax.

Gradually, the pressure around his finger lessens and Athos is pushing down, silently asking for more. Porthos obliges, adding the second finger and forcing them deep, curling and scissoring until Athos is gasping and fighting the natural desire to squirm.

Without warning, Porthos withdraws his fingers and takes hold of the neck of Athos’s doublet. Free of its fastenings, it slides from Athos’s shoulders and part way down his arms. Before it passes over Athos’s hands, Porthos twists the material tight in his fist, catching Athos’s hands in the sleeves, effectively binding his wrists. Athos tugs at the restraining cloth to no avail, his hands securely captured within the tangled fabric.

Using this unexpected leverage, Porthos twists Athos away from the door and propels him to the bed, pushing him face down onto the thin mattress. Holding him in place, Porthos climbs on behind him, quickly removing his boots and breeches and nudging his legs wider so he can settle between them. Athos once again tests his bonds, the muscles of his shoulders bunching as he strains for a moment before admitting defeat, going limp.

Porthos’s free hand tears at the ties of his own breeches and frees his cock, already well on the way to being fully aroused; although he may not understand Athos’s motivation behind wanting to be used this way, it would be impossible to remain unaffected by his undisguised need.

He spits on his hand – all he will use to ease the way – and strokes himself a couple of times, then lowers himself and guides the tip of his cock into position.

He rams home in one quick thrust.

There is a strangled groan from beneath him and Athos jerks, but while Porthos is rough, he is always careful; he has learnt exactly how to induce the combination of pleasure and pain that Athos craves without causing any damage.

He waits a few heartbeats to give them time to adjust before starting to move, the smooth rolling motion of his hips soon growing more erratic as he drives into Athos with enough force to make the bed creak, a force that seems unrestrained but is kept in measure by Porthos even as he finds his own pleasure in the tight heat surrounding him.

After a few minutes, it gradually registers in Porthos’s mind that Athos hasn’t moved. Usually, by this point, he is pushing back, urging Porthos deeper, but he remains motionless and unresponsive, his face buried in the counterpane.

Porthos’s rhythm falters and he slows, stops, and it is only now he is still that he notices the tremor that quakes though the body of the man beneath him.

Dread sparks in his stomach and clutches at his chest.

“Athos?”

Athos’s shoulders heave as he draws in a shaky breath, and he turns his head slightly.

“Take it off.” His voice is a raw whisper, muffled by the bed covers, but the stark desperation in the plea is clear. “Please.”

Porthos instantly releases his grip on the leather, gently withdrawing from Athos as he shakes the doublet loose and Athos pulls his hands from the sleeves. As soon as he is free, Athos drags himself away to the edge of the bed where he sits, hunched over, his arms wrapped around his head, leaving Porthos staring at his back, impotent. Distraught.

Suddenly sick to his stomach, Porthos is frozen, stricken. He has fucked up – a consequence that has been almost inevitable from the very moment they began this bizarre arrangement given that Athos has always declined to talk openly about what exactly it is, and Porthos has never dared ask for an explanation for fear Athos would venture elsewhere in search of what he believes he needs.

Helplessly, Porthos stares at Athos’s trembling shoulders, shrouded only in the shirt that still clings to him, wanting nothing more than to wrap him in a tight, protective embrace and drive away whatever demon he has unintentionally summoned. But he’s afraid his touch would only make it worse, a thought that leaves him devastated at his inability to offer any comfort.

“I’m sorry.”

Porthos might not have heard the apology, so softly was it spoken, had it not been for the utterly still silence of the room. He wonders, however, if he has heard correctly, for why in God’s name should Athos be apologising? It is not he who has made so dreadful an error.

But it’s _something_ , and it serves to stir Porthos from his fearful trance; _he_ ought to be the one seeking forgiveness.

He moves to sit beside Athos at the edge of the bed, careful to leave a little distance between them. Athos doesn’t acknowledge him, his face still obscured by an arm.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” Porthos says softly, his voice full of regret.

“You didn’t hurt me.”

Perhaps not, physically – Porthos is intimately aware that Athos’s pain threshold lies well above the norm – but he has inadvertently caused a far more terrible kind of agony. “Why didn’t you ask me to stop?”

“Because I needed to…”

The quiet words trail off into silence; Athos doesn’t say it aloud, but that aborted attempt at a confession confirms what Porthos had long ago realised: that this is a form of punishment, a way for Athos to atone for a past sin, the cause of the dark shadow that hovers over his troubled soul. 

Even knowing the reason for – if not quite the origin of – Athos’s desire to be used this way, Porthos has always been glad that Athos has sought it from him rather than a stranger who cares naught for his wellbeing, even though it constricts Porthos’s heart to witness just how little Athos values himself.

It spoke of an implicit trust on Athos’s part that Porthos fears he may have just destroyed.

“You know I’m willin’ to give you whatever you need, but not like this.”

Athos says nothing for several minutes, and Porthos begins to worry he may have descended back into the melancholic abyss that seems so close to claiming him. Then, finally, he speaks, his voice a detached whisper.

“I cannot bear to be bound.”

Perhaps it conjures memories of being captured, facing firing squads and his own mortality, but Porthos has a feeling the real reason lays deeper, somewhere well-fortified by the carefully constructed barricades Athos has erected within himself, for there is very little that can provoke such a complete loss of his typical composure.

Whatever the provenance of his aversion, his disclosure gives Porthos hope that maybe the trust they have always shared is still there, despite his blunder. His reply holds unmistakable regret. “You should have told me.”

Athos finally raises his head and meets Porthos’s gaze for a moment, surely long enough to read the sincerity there, and identify the affection that has always existed behind every action and deed that has passed between them, however brutal it may have appeared on the surface.

A flicker of recognition flashes in Athos’s red-rimmed eyes, but his expression remains frustratingly inscrutable.

Porthos’s gaze holds an appeal of its own as he beseeches Athos to lower his defences. “Let me offer you something more.”

Athos gives a minute shake of his head, lowering his eyes instead. “I can’t allow myself to…” He breaks off again, as if afraid to admit a weakness of spirit.

“To…what? To feel? To love?” Porthos’s voice takes on an edge of anger directed at his friend’s desire to deny himself such basic emotions. “What kind of a life is that?”

“One I deserve.”

“No!” The single word, spoken with a flare of outraged vehemence, has Athos looking at him again, but Porthos doesn’t know what else to say to convince him not to resign himself to an existence of numb desolation.

He’ll just have to show him, the only way he knows how.

Slowly, Porthos takes Athos’s hand in his own, encouraged when Athos doesn’t flinch at the touch, but neither does his demeanour change in any way. Until, that is, Porthos brings the hand to his lips and brushes a kiss against scarred knuckles.

Athos stares, his expression neutral save for his eyes – wide with surprise and bright with something akin to trepidation. Then the shutters close once more and he turns away from Porthos’s intense, insistent gaze, unwilling to acknowledge what he sees there.

He tries to pull his hand away, but Porthos tightens his grip; he is not going to let Athos retreat back behind his barriers, back to that empty void. A calloused palm gently turns Athos’s head back to face him, and Athos allows it, tentatively presenting Porthos with the opportunity to fill that void.

Porthos kisses him, slow and tender, the barest graze of lips that nevertheless conveys every emotion in Porthos’s heart. Athos remains frozen by a private, internal conflict, but Porthos persists until the walls begin to crumble.

Strong fingers squeeze his hand as Athos parts his lips, giving himself to Porthos in a manner that is strangely, wonderfully, far more intimate than the act that had brought them to this moment, and Porthos gathers Athos into a secure embrace that communicates everything he could never adequately express with words.

Athos sags against him, finally surrendering to both his own feelings and his exhaustion, accepting all that Porthos offers with silent gratitude.

They remain that way until Athos starts to shiver. Porthos moves back into the middle of the bed, drawing Athos with him as he lies down and drapes a blanket over them both. Athos settles alongside him, head nestled against his shoulder, and Porthos slides an arm around him, curling his hand protectively, possessively, over Athos’s ribs, his thumb rubbing small circles on warm skin through the thin layer of his shirt.

A few minutes later, Porthos feels the rise and fall of Athos’s chest relax to an even, steady rhythm and thinks he has fallen asleep, so is surprised when Athos raises an arm and, in an uncharacteristic display of tender affection, places his hand on Porthos’s chest.

Porthos covers it with his own and doesn’t let go, even when sleep finally claims them, holding it trapped against his heart.

**Author's Note:**

> I apologise for any remaining errors - the majority of this was written between the hours of 1 and 3am. Because it just wouldn't let me sleep.


End file.
